There was one chance, and only one, of saving Jeanne. It
was a chance out of a thousand--ten thousand. If he could drop at
the right moment, seize the stern of the canoe, and make a rudder
of himself, he could keep the craft from turning broadside and
might possibly guide it between the rocks below. This one hope was
destroyed as quickly as it was born. The canoe crashed against the
first rock. A smother of foam rose about it and he saw Jeanne
suddenly engulfed and lost. Then she reappeared, almost under him,
and he launched himself downward, clutching at her dress with his
hands. By a supreme effort he caught her around the waist with his
left arm, so that his right was free.
Ahead of them was a boiling sea of white, even more terrible than
when they had looked down upon it from above. The rocks were
hidden by mist and foam; their roar was deafening. Between Philip
and the awful maelstrom of death there was a quieter space of
water, black, sullen, and swift--the power itself, rushing on to
whip itself into ribbons among the taunting rocks that barred its
way to the sea. In that space Philip looked at Jeanne. Her face
was against his breast. Her eyes met his own, and In that last
moment, face to face with death, love leaped above all fear.
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